


Ellie the Artist

by mightydeafeningmouse



Series: Quentin Beck is a good dude [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quentin Beck Is A Good Guy, Quentin Beck Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-29 00:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightydeafeningmouse/pseuds/mightydeafeningmouse
Summary: Suddenly, Peter's arms are around him.Just like that, Quentin's nonchalant grown-up exterior completely shatters, and he's left crying into the shoulder of a sixteen-year-old.





	Ellie the Artist

**Author's Note:**

> In ffh Quentin mentions he had a family was killed by Elementals in his dimension. I had an idea and ran with it.
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me if you find typos! Enjoy :)
> 
> ** TRIGGER WARNING **

_"Daddy! Daddy!"_

_Quentin shoves his arms out in front of him, franticly searching through the pitch black room. He's running, tearing through the freezing air._

_"Elliot!" His voice carries through the room._

_"Daddy, help!" _

_His arms wave hectically through the air. "I'm coming Ellie!"_

_A piercing, deafening scream bounces off the walls. _

_"Daddy, I'm stuck! Dadda!" _

_A fresh shot of panic hits him so hard he's almost winded._

_"Elliot! It's okay, buddy, I'm coming!" Quentin sprints blindly. It's like all his other senses are missing and all he can hear is his son's terrified sobs._

_"Dadda! D-Dadda!" _

_"I'm trying, buddy! I can't - I'm almost there!" Quentin's so close, he can feel it. He just has to find him, but he's almost there. All he has to do is reach out, and-_

Quentin shot out of bed, his lungs begging for air.

Elliot's heart-stopping shrieks echo through his mind, along with the disoriented stream of _Elliot - Elliot, where is he, where's my son, where's my baby boy, Elliot, where's Elliot, where is he, where's my boy where's my boy where'smybabyboywhereismyson-_

Quentin gasps the air greedily. A thousand memories smack him all at once, leaving him breathless and vulnerable. 

_The fire Elemental tearing through the city. His apartment goes up in flames._

_Sprinting through the still-burning rumble - "Daddy, I'm stuck! Dadda!" - _

Quentin shuts his eyes. Tears dribble down his chin.

_His son, gone._

_He's fighting, he's going to make them pay, they took his baby and now they're going to pay - _

He draws a slow, deep breath from the bottom of his stomach.

_He crosses a threshold of sorts, he is introduced to Peter Parker, Nick Fury, and a whole new world where nothing is the same, nothing -_

"Mr. Beck?"

Quentin jumps about 18 feet in the air. Shit, he forgot about Peter. He completely forgot about their mission.

"I'm sorry," Peter rushes out, "I didn't mean to scare - hey, are you okay?"

Quentin let's out a breathy, humorless laugh. "Yeah, I'm-I'm good, buddy." He sniffles and musters up a tight smile. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Peter sits down on Quentin's bed, and fuck, he's staring at him and he's undoubtedly going to want an explanation, but Quentin doesn't want to talk about it, he really, really doesn't.

Peter places a hand on Quentin's shoulder. It's been so long since anyone has bothered to treat him with any level of gentleness or comfort, and he finds himself instinctively leaning into the touch.

"Were you crying?" Peter asks in a voice so soft and caring, Quentin's stomach starts to hurt.

"N-No." His voice wavers, and he knows he sounds weak and pathetic, but something about the question makes his vision blur.

Fresh, hot tears spill down his cheeks. Quentin is helpless to the little wretched whimper that escapes his throat. His hands ferociously scrub at his face, but the tears keep coming. 

Suddenly, Peter's arms are around him.

Just like that, Quentin's nonchalant grown-up exterior completely shatters, and he's left crying into the shoulder of a sixteen-year-old.

Peter brings one hand up to the nape of Quentin's neck to lightly card through his hair while the other rubs comforting circles on his back.

"It's okay to cry, Quentin," Peter murmurs. 

Quentin's chest heaves, and an unexpected sob passes his lips. He's too distracted to even notice that Peter finally put his first name to use. 

A massive, familiar dark cloud falls over Quentin. It smokes through his body, making his heart throb and his stomach knot. 

He cries for a long time. Peter, like the compassionate and warmhearted person he is, holds him the entire time and whispers words of comfort.

Peter ends up talking about his friends and tells Quentin about their earth in an effort to calm him down. Slowly, Quentin's breath evens out, and the moisture on his face dries. He sits there, quietly listening to Peter ramble while his head rests gently against the sixteen-year-old's shoulder. 

Quentin's fingers curl around Peter's forearm. It's comforting, so he doesn't give a shit that it makes him look like a five-year-old.

Next to him, Peter gestures wildly with his free hand, smiling while he finishes his story.

"-and now Jerry gives me free hotdogs! I mean, only if I'm in my suit, obviously. But, it's really nice of him. There's nothing like a free hotdog with mustard and relish after a long day of patrol." Peter giggles. As an afterthought, he askes, "You have hotdogs on your dimension, right?"

Peter's been asking a lot of questions about Quentin's earth, not that he minds. It's actually quite fascinating, the differences between their worlds, but it's also very strange. 

For example, never, in his entire life, has Quentin ever heard of a "hotdog". He's imagining a puppy with fire breath, but he highly doubts that's the correct definition.

He numbly shakes his head "no".

Peter's mouth stretches to an "0". "_Seriously?_ Oh my _God_." 

Quentin glances over at a distraught Peter. "Wow. It's stuff like this that really makes you think-"

"Peter?" He says spontaneously, internally cringing at his stripped, raw tone. Nevertheless, he detaches himself from the kid and sits up. 

"Yeah buddy?" Peter tilts his head, his concerned doe eyes boring into Quentin's bloodshot ones.

Quentin ducks his head. "I'm sorry. For, you know...," he trails off, his eyes tracing the designs of Peter's flannel pajama pants. 

"You don't have to apologize," Peter says quickly. "It's um. I, I don't mind." 

He scratches the back of his neck. "....Are you okay though?"

Quentin responds with a pitiful smile. "Of course. Look, it's late, and Fury will have our asses if we oversleep." 

Peter eyes him. Quentin just spent the last 15 minutes sobbing, having a complete emotional breakdown. There's no way he's magically just "okay" now.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Peter says skepticly.

Quentin nonchalantly shakes his head. "I'm fine, Peter, really," he answers tiredly, but not unkind.

Despite that the only light source in the room is a weak beam of moonlight, Peter can still see the usual tint of emptiness haunting Quentin's eyes. Only, tonight they're accompanied by violent red tear tracks. 

_No,_ Peter thinks. _He's far from fine._

"You can tell me if you're not," Peter gently presses.

Quentin's eyebrows crease. "Not what?"

"If you're not okay," he says carefully, trying to pack as much sincerity and comfort into his words. "I'm not going to laugh or anything."

Quentin stares at the floor in response. Peter almost thinks that he's ignoring him, but the way Quentin's eyes flicker around makes it obvious that he's thinking.

A slight chill fills the room as a stained, unpleasant hotel curtain flutters in the wind. Peter's not sure if it's the temperature or their conversation that shifts the atmosphere.

"I don't want you to pretend that you're okay. I know you're hurting," Peter whispers.

He bites his lip, unsure if he's crossing a boundary. He takes a breath and decides to persist. 

"The longer you keep it inside, the longer it's going to hurt you." He braces a hand on Quentin's shoulder. "I'm not saying that talking about it will make it go away, but....it'll help you heal."

A long, quiet moment passes. Quentin doesn't look at Peter, but Peter's eyes can't seem to find any spot other than Quentin. He watches Quentin pulls his body into a criss-cross-applesauce position and clutches his hands together.

"I had a son," he says so softly that Peter's enhanced ears strain to listen. 

_Oh God,_ he thinks. _He's using past tense._

A small smile graces Quentin's lips. "Believe me when I tell you, he was beautiful. Absolutely _beautiful_." 

Peter's stomach twists.

"...What was his name?" 

Watery blue eyes crinkle as he thinks of his son. "Elliot." 

Peter's eyes grow uncomfortably wet. "T-Tell me about him."

"He loved art. Loved it. I must've bought him over thirty sets of different markers, colored paper, paints, crayons," Quentin chuckles softly. "He could sit for hours and just color. My boy, Ellie the Artist."

Peter licks his lips as a tear slides down his cheek.

"I know every parent says it, but God. He was so _smart_," his voice shatters, and Peter sees liquid rim Quentin's eyes. "He had a thing for learning, it was-it was incredible. I'd take him to museums, and he'd go crazy. He wouldn't leave u-unless we saw every exhibit."

Tears now flow freely down Peter's cheeks. 

"How, um," Peter clears his throat, "How old was he?" 

"He-" Quentin's gaze flickers to the ceiling. He sucks in a breath. "He was five, when he - when he died."

Peter wipes his face with his sleeve and tries to be strong. But then, Quentin looks at him with this miserable, utterly hopeless expression, and Peter doesn't stand a chance.

"I'm sorry," he cries, "I'm so, so sorry." He feels a sturdy arm wrap around his shoulders.

"Me too." Quentin whispers. Peter tries, he tries so hard to stop sobbing. Quentin needs him right now, he needs him to be big and strong and grown-up.

But all Peter can think about is how painful it must be to bury your own child. He can't even image the level of sorrow Quentin feels.

"I still don't understand it," Quentin confesses. Peter clutches Quentin's arm in silent comfort. "Eight months ago, I'd be yelling at Elliot for not cleaning up his toys."

He speaks with authentic emotion, and Peter wonders how he hasn't exploded from grief yet. 

Quentin sniffles, his voice completely wrecked. "I'd give anything to trip on his toy cars again."

Peter looks up at Quentin. His eyes are still leaking, and he looks tired beyond belief, but his expression is surprisingly....numb. 

Peter knows that look. Numbness is what takes hold when there's too much suffering and hollowness inside. No, numbness is not a good sign.

A spark of panic flares in Peter's chest. 

He unravels himself from Quentin's hold. "I-I think that's enough for tonight." He mumbles, stretching his legs as he stands.

Quentin glances up, his fatigue obvious.

"Let's-Let's talk about this in the morning, okay?" He says, gently trying to push Quentin's body into a laying position.

"Peter, wait-"

"It's okay," Peter tugs at the blankets and wrestles them over Quentin's body. "Tomorrow, we're gonna sit down a-and talk. But right now, you really need to rest-"

Suddenly, Quentin snatches hold of Peter's wrist. The grip is weak, and Peter could break out of it as easily as he can tie his shoes. But he wants to hear what he has to say, so he gives Quentin his undivided attention. 

Their eyes lock.

Quentin tries, but words won't come. Instead, he scoots over until there's enough room for a second person to lay next to him. Then, he looks at Peter, hoping he understands.

Peter tilts his head, slowly connecting the dots. "You want me to sleep with you?" 

Quentin bites his lip. "I-I don't want to be alone," he whispers. 

Peter is struck by how young Quentin sounds. When he first met the man, Quentin was the epitome of confidence and strength. Now, as Quentin pleads for Peter to stay, he wonders if it was all a front.

Taking his silence as rejection, Quentin releases Peter's arm. "I'm sorry." 

"No, no, I'll stay," Peter says quickly. He slides underneath the covers. "I'll stay. It's okay."

His body tucks neatly against Quentin's. Quentin instantly freezes, and Peter tenses, ready move if the other is uncomfortable. But then, Quentin melts. He hesitantly rests his hand on Peter's side and their legs tangle together. Peter snuggles into the warm embrace.

Quentin hasn't snuggled with anyone like this since Elliot. If anything, he thought it should make him sad, but the familiar weight against his body relaxes him and puts his mind at ease.

Peter hasn't had much physical contact since Mr. Stark. As painful as it is to think about it, Quentin's arms around him feel almost as comforting as his mentor's.

They lay together, legs intertwined while hands play with hair. Crisp nighttime air gently breezes through the room, along with the soft hum of far away vehicles.

For the first time in a while, neither of them have a hard time falling asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be shy, leave me a comment! Thanks for reading :)


End file.
